


let's get it found

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Clueless Boys, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:59:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5507417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He <i>had</i> thought that maybe Tom felt the same way, that maybe they were headed towards something more than just the friendship they’d built -- hell, sometimes it felt like they <i>were</i> dating -- but then Taylor came into the picture, and Mike realized that he’d only been seeing what he wanted to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's get it found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fromiftowhen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromiftowhen/gifts).



> For fromiftowhen, who wanted Michael Latta/Tom Wilson and left it basically wide open for me. You mentioned liking "oops didn't know we were dating!" as a trope you like for them, and this isn't that, per say, but it's close. I hope you like it! 
> 
> Note: Tom Wilson's possible RL girlfriend is mentioned in this fic. I know nothing about her but her name, so that's what I used. There is NO infidelity.

Practice is nearly over when Tom hits Mike from behind, a gentle shove that’s probably meant to be playful but instead sends a rush of anger coursing through Mike’s veins. He clenches his jaw, tightens his grip on his stick, and turns on his edges before returning the shove with a less-than-friendly cross-check to Tom’s chest. 

Tom stumbles back, but doesn’t go down, and Mike sees his eyebrows come together in a confused frown. Mike squares his shoulders, juts his chin out. “The fuck, Latts?” Tom questions, and his jaw drops when Mike skates closer and does it again. Tom gets his balance and narrows his eyes, and then he’s in Mike’s face, the toes of their skates touching while Tom shouts at him. “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

“Get outta my face, dick,” Mike shouts back, jabbing the butt of his stick up under Tom’s ribs. Tom groans, his pads shifting when he hunches over, swearing under his breath. They’re drawing attention now, and Mike can see Brooksie moving towards them in his peripheral. It’s just enough to distract him, and before he can defend himself, Tom gets an arm around his shoulders and tackles him. 

He goes down hard, his head buzzing when his helmet bounces off the ice, his teeth clacking sharply. Tom’s glaring down at him, chest heaving under his jersey, and Mike sits up on his elbows, huffing out an annoyed breath. 

The anger fades from Tom’s face, but when he holds a gloved hand out to help Mike up, Mike shoves it away. “Fuck off, I don’t need your help. I don’t need _anything_ from you.” Tom shoots him a pained look and then Brooksie’s there, pulling them apart. 

Tom looks over his shoulder at Mike as Brooksie drags him down the ice, and Mike looks away, angry and embarrassed. 

In hindsight, he probably should have just kept his damn mouth shut last night.

**

“You wanna order in?” Willy calls from the kitchen, and Mike opens his mouth automatically to answer ‘yes, please, call the sandwich place down the street, the one with the great roast beef’. Before he can, though, Taylor’s voice floats down the hall. 

“Yeah, pizza sounds great!” she calls, and Tom pokes his head out from the kitchen, glancing at Mike with his eyebrows raised. 

“You want in?” he asks. 

Mike pictures Taylor in Tom’s bedroom, half-naked and under Tom’s covers, and his stomach rolls. Taylor’s great -- she’s an incredible athlete, for one, and she’s funny and smart and very accepting of the fact that Mike is always all up in Tom’s space. Since she came into Tom’s life, though, both nothing and everything has changed. 

“Nah, I’m good,” Mike says, getting to his feet. “I’m gonna run down to that new sandwich place down the street.”

“The one with the awesome roast beef?” Tom asks, wistful, and Mike can’t help but smile. 

“You know it,” he says with a grin, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch. “Want me to bring something back?” Tom leans against the counter while Mike toes on his shoes, his arms folded over his bare chest. Mike does his best not to let his eyes wander; Taylor’s just down the hall, and Mike knows that if he looks close enough, he’ll see a bite mark the exact shape of her mouth on Tom’s left shoulder. 

It makes him uneasy, like a lot of things have lately, and he’s spent too much time not thinking about _why_ to start now.

“I guess we’re doing pizza,” he says with a slight shrug, and Mike takes some sort of weird comfort in the fact that he sounds disappointed. 

“Hey,” Taylor says, sidling up to Tom’s side and tucking herself under his arm. “Did you order yet?”

Mike ignores the way his stomach turns again and ducks out the door. He also ignores the way Tom’s eyes are on him until the door clicks shut behind him, and he leans against it, his heart racing. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, to feel any sort of jealousy towards Taylor. She’s been nothing but great to him, and he’s horned in on more than one of her dates with Tom, Taylor waving a hand at him every time he insists he’ll stay behind.

“Don’t be dumb,” she’d said the last time she was in town. “We all need to eat, and you know you love this place. You’re coming.” It’d been a lot of fun, even if his chest ached every time Tom’s knee knocked against his under the table, but he still felt awkward about the whole thing. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and punches the down button to call the elevator.

It’s time to face facts, he tells himself with a glance over his shoulder at the closed apartment door.

Things just aren’t going to be the same anymore.

**

Mike’s dozing on the couch when he hears the quiet rush of water running in the sink. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and checks the time on his phone -- 1:00 am -- before kicking the blanket from his lap and putting his bare feet on the floor. He flexes his toes and rolls his shoulders. “Your neck is gonna kill in the morning,” he hears Tom say, his voice quiet from the kitchen. 

“Why are you up?” Mike asks, stretching his arms above his head and turning the volume down on the TV. An old episode of _Friends_ is playing, and the canned laughter is too much for Mike’s liking this late. 

The water stops running, and Tom comes around the corner, his hair sticking up on one side and the imprint of wrinkled sheets on his bicep. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Mike shrugs and rolls his neck. “Fell asleep watching TV, I guess. There’s a sandwich in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

The only light in the room is coming from the TV, but Mike can still see the way Tom’s expression goes fond. “Roast beef?” he asks, and Mike just nods. Tom disappears again, and Mike hears the fridge open and close, then the rustle of paper as Tom unwraps the sandwich.

Mike couldn’t help himself, earlier, when he was getting dinner. He knows how much Tom loves roast beef subs, slathered in oil and covered in lettuce and tomatoes, just a few peppers and a little bit of salt. He also knows how much Tom loves a midnight snack, so when the guy behind the counter asked if he’d like anything else, Mike added another sandwich to his order and tucked it in the fridge when he got home. (Taylor and Tom were nowhere to be found, but Tom’s bedroom door was closed and Mike could hear Taylor giggling, so he was glad he decided to eat dinner at the deli, or he’d have lost his appetite.)

“The paper’s wet,” Tom says with a grin, sitting down next to Mike with the sandwich cradled in one of his huge hands and a giant glass of milk in the other.

“Just like you like it,” Mike says softly, and Tom bumps their shoulders together. He’s warm and solid against Mike’s side, and Mike thinks, fleetingly, that there’s no reason for him to be this close. There’s plenty of couch space, but Tom’s right up against him anyway.

“You’re the best,” Tom says around a mouthful of sandwich, and Mike wrinkles his nose and pokes Tom in the side. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he chides, and Tom opens his mouth wide and crosses his eyes. Mike laughs and makes a face, and when he swats at Tom’s leg, his fingertips dip under the hem of Tom’s boxers where they’re loose around his thigh. It’s completely unintentional, but Tom sucks in a breath anyway, the muscles in his leg flexing under Mike’s hand. 

He watches Tom’s throat work as he swallows his bite, his eyes falling to Tom’s mouth where it glides along his lower lip, catching the bit of oil slicked there. When Tom’s eyes meet his, he snatches his hand away, clenching his fingers into a fist. “Sorry,” he says quickly, then forces a laugh. Tom’s still watching him carefully, and he can hear his own heart beating in his ears. “No homo, I swear.”

Tom’s forehead creases in a deep frown, and Mike swallows. “Don’t say shit like that,” he says. “It’s, like -- I don’t know, it’s not cool. I don’t care if you’re -- “ he stops, waves a hand. “I wouldn’t care.”

“Okay,” Mike says slowly, and licks his lips. His palms are sweating, and he’s torn between wishing Tom would stop looking at him like that and wishing he’d never look away. It’s not a new feeling, and not for the first time, Mike finds his mind wandering, wondering what it would feel like if Tom was looking at him like he meant it. 

Tom frowns again, puts his sandwich down and angles his body towards Mike’s. His knuckles are touching the outside of Mike’s knee. 

“Are you?” Tom asks, and Mike forgets how to breathe. “Because if you are, you can tell me, man, I can’t believe you wouldn’t --”

Mike’s mouth starts moving before his brain can stop it, any filter he’s kept in place for the past few months suddenly gone. Tom’s just sitting so _close_ , and Mike’s tired of pretending anymore. “I’m into you,” he says quickly, and then snaps his mouth shut, the back of his neck going red-hot.

The quiet in the apartment is deafening. For a long moment, neither of them speaks, and Mike stares at the floor, trying to keep his breathing even. “I know you’re with Taylor,” Mike says softly. “I shouldn’t have -- “

“I’m not _with_ Taylor,” Tom interrupts. “I mean, we’re -- it’s not like that, it’s not serious. We’re just having fun.”

“Does she know that?” Mike asks.

Tom makes an annoyed sound. “Of course she does, I’m not an asshole.” He sighs softly, and Mike stiffens when Tom lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “How long?”

Mike laughs sadly and shakes his head. “A long time, man. Are you that clueless? I don’t think I hide it well.” He ignores the growing pit in his stomach, the one telling him that this is a bad idea, that he should stop talking now, that this isn’t going to end well. 

“Mike,” Tom says, and Mike can hear the apology in his voice. He shakes Tom’s hand from his shoulder and stands up, his knee knocking Tom’s glass of milk over in the process. He watches it drip from the edges of the coffee table and suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Tom is his best friend, and he probably just ruined everything. _”Mike,”_ Tom says again, and Mike shakes his head, stepping over Tom’s long limbs to get past him.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” MIke says. “Just forget it, ok?”

“C’mon, Latts,” Tom says, following him down the hall. “Talk to me.”

Mike scoffs and stops in his tracks, turning so quickly on his heels that Tom nearly runs into him. “And say what, Willy? That I’ve been into you for as long as I can remember? That it sucks that things aren’t the same anymore now that Taylor’s around? That I thought maybe -- “ He stops there, because he knows it’s not worth it. He _had_ thought that maybe Tom felt the same way, that maybe they were headed towards something more than just the friendship they’d built -- hell, sometimes it felt like they _were_ dating -- but then Taylor came into the picture, and Mike realized that he’d only been seeing what he wanted to see. 

“You’re a great guy,” Tom starts, and no, Mike thinks. No way he’s going to stand here and listen to Tom give him some speech about how great he is and how he’ll find someone someday.

“Don’t,” Mike says. “Just -- don’t. I’m going to bed.” He turns his back and retreats to his room, ignoring Tom’s voice trailing behind him.

“You didn’t let me --”

He closes the door.

**

Mike looks up from his stall when someone claps him on the shoulder. He’s half out of his skates, his jersey hanging around his neck where he pulled his arms out, and Brooksie is standing in front of him with one eyebrow raised.

“You good?” he asks, and Mike nods, his gaze shifting to the left when Tom comes bounding into the locker room, shoving playfully with Chimmer. His smile fades a little when his eyes meet Mike’s, and Mike looks away quickly enough that he doesn’t have to see any further change in Tom’s expression. 

He’s careful to stay out of Tom’s space. It feels weird and forced, considering at least one part of his body is usually touching Tom’s when they’re undressing after practice -- ankles pressed together as they untie their skates, shoulder-to-shoulder while they listen to Coach give them the run-down. The space between them suddenly feels like miles, and Mike really needs to get out of here.

“Where are you going?” Tom asks Mike when he stands up, bag slung over his shoulder. They rode to the rink together like usual, but the silence was awkward, and there was something hanging in the air between them that Mike couldn’t quite put his finger on. He caught Tom looking at him while they were stopped at a light, and for the first time since they’ve known each other, he couldn't decipher the look on Tom’s face. 

He doesn’t want a repeat of that anytime soon.

“I’ll catch a ride.”

Tom huffs and pushes his wet hair back out of his face. “C’mon, Latts, is this about -- “

“It’s not about anything,” Mike snaps. “I’ll see you later.”

He follows Brooksie out, ignoring the heavy weight of Tom’s gaze on his back.

**

 _are you avoiding me_

The text comes halfway through Mike’s workout, and he slows his run to a walk, wiping the sweat from his forehead as the treadmill moves beneath his feet. The answer to Tom’s question is easily “yes”, but Mike’s not sure that’s something he’s ready to admit to Tom (or himself, really.)

To say things have been tense since the scuffle at practice would be an understatement. They’ve barely spoken, let alone hung out like they usually do, and Mike knew it was only a matter of time before Tom called him out on it.

 _no_ he texts back after his cool-down, a towel slung around his neck as he heads back to his hotel room. _just busy_

_we have the same schedule_

_you’ve been with taylor_ Mike replies, and it’s probably a low blow, but he can’t help himself.

_she left days ago, don’t play dumb_

Mike blinks. He honestly had no idea Taylor’d gone home; maybe he’d been avoiding Tom more than he thought.

 _that’s done anyway_ Tom texts again, and Mike has to read it twice to believe it. _told you._

 _sorry_ Mike says, for lack of anything better, and his phone buzzes almost immediately.

_wasn’t serious. can i come up?_

Mike checks the time. They have a couple hours until dinner with their dads, and now that he’s done working out, he really doesn’t have any excuse to tell Tom no.

 _whatever_ he replies, and before he can even get out of his sweaty shirt, Tom’s knocking on the door.

“Were you just -- standing out here texting me?” Mike asks, one eyebrow up in question. Tom shrugs one shoulder and pushes past him. His hair is damp, and he smells like that damn Axe bodywash he’s obsessed with. Shit, Mike _missed_ him. “So what’s --”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Tom butts in, and he’s standing much closer than Mike thinks is probably necessary for a friendly conversation. 

“Uh. What?”

“That night,” Tom goes on. “When you told me -- you know, that you’re into me. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Mike mocks, but his cheeks are hot. 

“Don’t do that,” Tom says, and Mike can’t remember a time when he’s seen Tom look so serious. His brow is furrowed, and his normally clear-blue eyes seem darker somehow, like he’s troubled. “God, Latts, just -- god damnit.”

He runs both hands through his hair and tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. Mike swallows around the nervous lump in his throat. “I don’t get why you’re here.”

“Because I miss you, you idiot!” Tom shouts, and Mike flinches, surprised. “I miss your stupid face around the apartment and I miss your dumb commentary on every fucking movie we watch.”

Tom moves into his space again, so close Mike can feel his body heat. He holds his breath.

“I miss the smelly tacos you make. I miss tripping over your towel in the bathroom.”

“It’s been a week,” Mike says quietly, the crack in his voice betraying him.

Tom laughs then, that bright smile that Mike loves so much splitting his face. “I’d miss you if you were gone a _day_ , Latts. You didn’t let me _finish_.”

Mike clears his throat. His hair is matted to his head and he’s sure he smells like sweaty socks. “So finish.”

“I’m into you too,” Tom says simply, and it’s the last thing Mike was expecting. “I thought we were -- I dunno, I thought we were kinda headed in that direction? And then you got weird over the summer, and I met Taylor, and I thought, I dunno. I didn’t think --”

“Shut up,” Mike says, because he’s heard enough. His hands are in Tom’s hair before Tom can say anything else, and he pulls him in for a kiss, their mouths fitting together just like Mike knew they would. It’s soft and sweet and everything Mike never thought he could have, and Tom’s smile against his mouth is the best feeling he’s had in awhile. 

“So we’re good?” Tom says. He rests his forehead against Mike’s, and Mike kisses him again.

“Yeah, Willy,” he mumbles, nosing along Tom’s jaw. His heart is in his throat and Tom’s hands are on his hips, his fingertips dipping just under the hem of his shirt. He’s never been better. “We’re good.”


End file.
